What Does Your Soul Look Like

Rumours of a hurricane on Friday morning when the Bucks Free Press crashed conservatively on the Meat Clinic doormat.

"Scotch John Done One After Barney With MonkeyMan Beeks" screamed the headline, in so many words.

A few hours later and amongst the adverts and SMS information littering the offical website, there it was. Scotch John has indeed done one, off to pastures new or even a life not in a field chewing grass.

The news has unleashed a fury of rage on the mouth organ of the Drone Army, the hated gasroom. One by one they line up to describe the latest events as the self-styled greatest disaster to fall upon Buckinghamshire unfolds in their clouded minds. In their eyes it is indicative of a moral decline at the club under the new regime who have, let's be honest, merely ("crazily" scream the bulk) expected a return on their investment.

The rank hypocrisy of these people is breathtaking. Not only are they acting as if Gorman has been shoved in the back of a Ford Orion and not given a substantial pay settlement, but many of them are the very people who were so eager to usher out the old constitution and create the current conditions at Wycombe Wanderers Football Club.

They were happy to merrily piss the history and culture of the club away on 29/7 for the promise of a new dawn but it seems that many of them cannot handle the new business culture present at Adams Park. Well they'll now have to wrestle with their own demons, just as the Meat Clinic did when we sacked Baron DF55 after he put steroids into the wrong cattle.

Sometimes not even new pastures are enough.

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SMBU Managing Director oily sailor has completed his review of the 2005-06 season and his findings are now online on the main website.

Click here for direct access.

Old Man Kensey

There was an epic beauty about not going through last night, as the wolves and bears howled from the incest hills surrounding Cheltenham.

Wycombe handed out a steaming footballing lesson last night and at times like that football tiers don't matter; you can inspire someone from a grimy dungeon or even League Two for that matter.

The important thing is that WWFC do not give up the new-found footballing principles of 2005-06 and climb out of the bottom division like a glowing beacon of hope amongst the sweating hoofers that congregate there like Fred and Rose.

Going up wouldn't have been that much different anyway, we'll miss the chance to play Forest, but the Essex Scum have now gone one higher and it is preferable to wait for their nailed-on demotion this time next year.

Now there will even be the chance to see the mother of all moral conundrums as Wycombe fans argue about whether it is right or wrong to go to Milton Keynes for a league game. Watch people tie themselves in knots and their faces implode.

They'll never take away the memories of 2005-06, Sergio at Grimsby, the comeback at Rushden, the whiskey at Orient. Go Northampton, take your soulless stadium into League One and bore people with your council-funded team.

As always, we'll carve out some beauty with knitting needles in our arms. Chuck away your inflatable sticks and pound your fists into the terrace walls. We're not unbeatable but we're charming.

Married To A Lazy Lover

13:37
News that Section Five have mobbed up at Blenheim reaches High Wycombe. "There's claret all over the garden path" report Three Counties Radio.

14:01
Lincoln v Grimsby finishes and someone notices.

14:23
Pub starts to fill up with Liverpool fans dressed in cherry red and with flaky lips, almost as if they'd been sucking on limbs.

14:48
Landlord decides to turn on the sound, motivated perhaps to drown out the cries of "Istanbul, Anfield Road and Chesham Bois".

15:30
"Have you ever been to Anfield, have you fuck"

15:50
Rush for the toilets, it's like a sauna but this sweat is only coming out of one pore.

16:59
Why do silly southeners try and put on a scouse accent when singing "Steve Gerrard, Gerrard". It sounds like a pensioner trying to put his false teeth into a mouth full of snot. At best.

17:25
News that the kickoff at Wycombe has been delayed. "They've just opened another bottle of lemonade in Scores" reports an insider. English way of life.

18:06
Where are our heroes? The sight of the Drone Army banging together tubes of plastic like research mice in Spackington College reduces the party to tears of dismay, and laughter. Stick a logo on my skull and piss in my eyes.

19:34
Is Rosé acceptable as an evening drink when you're inside?

20:00
Late goal leaves the door open but if you peer inside it looks fucking brutal. Saturdays are elastic at the best of times. Evening rain leaves a permanent shimmer. Over and out.

Wave Of Mutilation

Like hearing Miami Sound Machine's Hot Summer Nights pounding on the Top Gun soundtrack, you just know that Saturday May 13 will be a red letter day/dead letter office for the town of High Wycombe. The bars are opening at 11am and the game is kicking off at 18:05.

That's seven hours five minutes of heated drinking time, there'll be Pimms on the deck, shandy in the salt cellars and shiraz in the veins. Even the club are getting in on the act, opening tribute plasma bar "Scoring" at 11am, with a litre of wine just £1.

Thames Valley are sharpening their batons as we speak. This town, is 'coming like a ghost town. In future years they'll ask where were you on May 13? And you'll answer in all honesty "I was in the zone" and the police will not be able to take way your freedom, just your mind.

The game itself is the loser. Will anyone bother to turn up for six or will the Saturday evening shakes be kicking in and the thought of Gladiators on Challenge TV be too much? First legs are where you stumble.

Wycombe, don't let us down.

Shaking Through

A final day of the season with the promise of at least two more games is a strange event. You want to see it all through wistful eyes but it turns out its just glaucoma, or some sort of silly horrid muck that has become lodged in there.

Nonetheless, for the 12th season in a row Wycombe ended their season at London Road, Peterborough. The local populace are friendly but confused, eager yet scaly to touch and vile.

The game itself was a simple affair for Wycombe, and even Tino Easter rolled one in from range. Any thoughts that this could be the start of a brave new era for the young journeyman were hampered when he buckled his ankle on the groove-tainted pitch. Joe90 also busted something on his shoddy body so once again he'll be collecting his wages under false pretences.

The team cries out for Sergio Torres, a delicate genius who ran the midfield against Conference-bound Oxford in February and has not appeared since. His gubbed ankle is the real reason for the end of season collapse and what a boost it would be for everyone to see him in the starting XI against Cheltenham.

But it won't happen and this is hard to take.

Still, the build-up to the play-off week starts here and you could cut the excitement with a chainsaw. Just.

Dawn Can't Decide

I built a bookcase the afternoon Wycombe got dismantled 5-4 by Macclesfield. It was all going wrong, the instructions were written on blotting paper, there were screws missing, the sawdust billowed up like desert sand.

But the angrier I became, the more Wycombe came back into the game. It couldn't last, the bookcase was assembled and Wycombe slipped to a harrowing defeat. Nothing has gone right since that game really, and the bookcase sits there mocking me, its sturdiness bound up in the very collapse of the 2005-06 season.

If Wycombe make it to Cardiff, the sensible thing would be to chop it apart like a gruesome tree, that alone would guarantee the Buckinghamshire side promotion.

But where would I store my Dostoevskys?